Life and Death in San Diego
by Dusty London
Summary: Story.


Life and Death in San Diego

You can hear things you want to hear, and things you act like you don't want to hear. Everybody wants to hear everything, because in some ways it provides you with self validation. You can take these snippets, these conversational canvases from anybody. The man on the phone, the couple at the shopping center, the two men who have nothing better to do then talk about two other men. You take these conversations, and create something that is probably greater than you and your eavesdropee. What is a women on the phone is now two forbidden lovers describing the possibility of a lesbian excursion.

But all she said was, babe, what time should we meet? Perhaps so, and maybe I over-conclude. But what a peculiar thing to say to a boyfriend. So I must rationalize. And what a sweet rationalization it is. I wish them the best. I walk through the streets of downtown San Diego to sit. And to act like maybe I'm thinking about something that other people will wonder what I'm thinking about. And just then I capture something. Two men who dress like they have somewhere to be, and one woman. Actually, a girl.

He moved down there, to Rosarito.

Mexico?

I swear, I remember him. Dirtbag of a guy.

Yeah, I could see him getting killed. He was a nice guy, but his mouth got him in trouble.

Why would you say that about him?

He was a nice guy, I actually saw him a couple of years ago. At a club. I want him to be alive but he's probably dead.

Well, what was wrong with him.

He was just one of those guys, you know.

He was one of those guys that might scam you if your not careful.

Yeah, well he never did this to me, personally, but say you were sick. And you needed someone to pickup some milk or medicine, or something for you and you gave the guy a $20, you'd have to ask for the change back.

Yeah, and you'd also ask for the receipt.

You know what, after thinking about it, you'd probably call the guy and say that your feeling better, just so you wouldn't have to deal with the hassle.

The girl sat unimpressed. But these men were absolutely enthralled by their own story. Their energy bounced off of one another as each layer stacked upon itself. And they fed on their own ability to make a deadbeat from Mexico sound entertaining.

This guy, his name was Scottie, Scottie Record or something. He was definitely an ex-con, and I knew he spent some time in jail.

Yeah, he had a buddy, Stacks. All this guy would talk about was how bad the drivers were in San Diego. And one time, I went on a ride with this guy and Scottie for a pub crawl in P.B and we almost get in two accidents.

Yeah, these guys were class acts.

This was before I knew he spent time in prison man.

He had a ton of dogs too that would always _pass away._

What did he to them?

I don't know I just knew they died.

Anyways, I don't know what happened to Stacks. But as for Scottie, I wouldn't be surprised if one of those headless bodies you hear about on the news were his.

You can tell one of the guys wasn't done talking about Stacks. Sometimes you wonder how an author chooses a protagonist. Stacks was a better person to talk about then the other one.

Stacks was originally from Denver. And when he came of age his mother cried because she knew he'd leave. And no other man would be left. But he swore that he'd take care of her and would never put her in a nursing home. So after waving goodbye to his mother, he turned west. What his mother didn't know is that there was someone else in his life. A mistress, who wanted nothing more then to be in his presence. But, on his return he grew tired of women and instead turned to drink. His hours would be spent in and around the cities bars. This was routine, until eventually, he was a shadow of the night. You could see these ones like him. Their faces only illuminated by the piss-yellow glow of the streetlights. The hoodie-wearing underbelly of this dog of a city.

But something primordial arose. He had now become part of the city, but not in a personable way. He was like a chipped piece of cement coming from the Disabled Parking Only spot on 9th. Or a strangely colored brick that pokes its head out of the Penn Hotel so noticeably that you have to question whether it was placed that way purposefully. This is what he was like. Now that there was nothing left he found refuge in the streets that had robbed him of goodness. But this wasn't a spiteful relationship. The city was his, and he was the city. They owned each other and when they dreamed at night the city did not dream of growing larger. He did not dream of owning the city. They dreamed of a day where their destruction would be at the hands of one another. Where the thrust of his fist would lay flat the tallest of skyscraper. And the grandeur of her precise magnitude would send him to his knees. Brick and blood, blood and brick.

It was like this for some time. An unflinching trust that can only be shared between man and the improbable. Man and his quest for something greater then himself. Stacks no longer walked the city, but provided for it. He gave it his soul while she was given breath. It was on nights where his cheeks touched pavement that this gift was all the more visible. Until, on one such night he was approached. A nicely dressed man in a suit and red tie.

Excuse me sir. Excuse me, he said. Stacks looked up, but gave no reply.

Sir, I'm part of a new organization in San Diego called the Ptroemis Project. We work on giving homeless men a chance at life again. We could provide you wit-

I don't want it.

We could give you temporary housing, job training, and financial support.

Why do you want to give me this?

I've been watching you the past couple of days, and your still young. I know you don't want to live this way, with, with nothing.

I don't want this, I want to sleep man. I've got my stuff.

The man now took a stop closer. They were now within touching distance of each other.

When I look in your eyes, I don't see a bum. I see someone with the potential to become a functioning member of society. I could give you this city. I could make these buildings yours, and maybe one day, one of these towers will have your name on it. Would you like that? Take my hand, and I could give you a new life.

With this Stacks left, and made another life. One with the potential for good. Eventually, he became weary of potential and looked for something more.

Now, it had been months since he had seen his past lover and mother .The only sun that he had come to know was the early morning rays that sometimes managed to wander their way past the blinds of his apartment. He grew accustomed to the booze soaked days that slipped and dripped right on through his palms. Because no matter how hard he tried, trembling hands can only eased by three things. Women, God, and Whiskey. Women and God he was without.


End file.
